


The Dream

by realismandromance



Category: Original Work
Genre: Drama, Gen, Horror, Mystery, One Shot, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-04-18 06:34:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4695797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realismandromance/pseuds/realismandromance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'The train station was empty. The train was almost.' It's a dark and cold night, and a young man is travelling alone by train. But there is another person in his carriage - a strange old lady with wilted flowers and eyes that are almost white.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Roald Dahl's short story 'The Landlady', though otherwise unrelated.

_All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream ..._

The train station was empty. The train was almost. Outside it was pitch-black, very cold and very wet. I could see my eyes reflected in the window on my left, which was streaked with rain. In the mirror-like glass I could see rows of empty seats, an emergency exit and several signs that said No Smoking. Twisting my head around a little further, I caught the white-blue eyes of a very old woman sitting behind me. In her shrivelled hands was a large bunch of wilting mauve carnations.

'Sorry, I didn't see you there,' I said shakily, feeling put on the spot as she kept peering into my eyes. 'I could have sworn ...'

She leaned forwards so that she was uncomfortably close to me. Her breath smelled of rosemary and I drew back, not wanting to seem rude but already feeling uneasy. I glanced at my watch. It would be an hour before the train got to my stop.

'I'm Poppy,' she said. Her voice was very soft and breathy, and I strained to hear it over the noise of the train. 'And where do you get off, my dear boy?'

'Oh, not for a while,' I said vaguely. I didn't feel like talking.

'Very nice, dear,' she said, dismissing me as if the question had been merely a formality. I turned back to look at the window, but I could feel her eyes on me, boring holes in the back of my head. In the corner of my eye, I could see her reflection in the glass. She was watching me.

'Is something bothering you?' I asked finally, turning again. 'Do you want me to move? We have the whole carriage to ourselves, after all.'

'Oh, no,' she said, the carnations quivering in her grip as the train rounded a curve. 'It's just that you remind me of my husband.' She smiled, lips parting to reveal pale teeth, like rows of little pearls. 'He had the same dark hair and eyes - such beautiful eyes! Whenever he looked at me, I felt so lost in them. He had impeccable manners, too, and always knew the right thing to say. I tell you, they don't make men nowadays like they used to. Every day he used to bring me flowers - every day, if you can imagine that! I don't suppose you young folks would ever think of such a thing nowadays. All you do is gad about and waste time. But my husband, he was a proper gentleman.'

Nobody likes to be told that they resemble somebody, and it is even worse to be told that you are inferior. I shivered, imagining a dark, stern man in a tie and tails, possibly holding out a bouquet of mauve carnations. Probably he was a war hero, too.

But where had she got the carnations from?

'He'll be waiting for me when I get home, you see. He always is.'

I had been trying to tune her out, but that last part made me frown.

'Hang on,' I said, my throat uncomfortably dry. 'You said something about your  _dead_  husband ... at least, I think you did ...'

'Did I?' she asked, apparently quite confused. 'I must have been mistaken. It's not him who's dead. My husband comes to visit me every day. Sometimes he brings me flowers, but he never once mentions your name.'

'My name?' I echoed, frowning. 'Why in the world would he mention my name?'

She continued as if she hadn't heard. 'I talk about you all the time, but he doesn't listen. So many times I bump into you, I tell him, but he tells me it must be somebody else. But how could it be? How could it be anybody but you?'

'What are you talking about?' I said, trying not to be unnerved and opting to lean away from her. Out of all the carriages on the train, I had to choose the one with the batty old woman inside.

'They told me you were dead, but I never believed it. No child of mine would let that happen to them. Oh, all the times I tried to convince them! How could they not see you?'

'What do you mean, a child of yours?'

But she was rattling about something else, lost in her own world. How long had we been travelling for, anyway? I checked my watch again. It was only then that I noticed something strange. Although the train kept on going, it never stopped at any station and it was always too dark outside to see anything. Surely we had come to the next stop by now ...

'Do you take this train every day?' I asked her, forgetting I thought she was batty for a second.

She looked astonished at the very notion. 'Of course not,' she said, somewhat miffed. 'I know I must have got on sometime, but it was all so long ago.'

'Tell me something else,' I said, my heart hammering uncomfortably. 'Has it always been just you? Or were there once more people on this train? Were the carriages full once?'

'Oh yes,' she said dreamily, her pale eyes misty. 'They were full for a long time ... but then they gradually got emptier and emptier. Only my husband stayed on, bringing me flowers ... until he only visited. One by one, they had all left. Even you never came ... until now. What made you come back? Why didn't you ever visit before?' She was leaning into my face as she spoke, and I choked on her breath. Yes, it was rosemary, but there was something else ... the stale, sickly smell of  _hospital_  ...

Nothing made any sense. I must be dreaming, I thought wildly. There was no other explanation.

The woman was still looking at me strangely.

'Tell me one last thing,' I said, sure I had the answer. 'Is this all made up - I mean to say - am I dreaming? Is this all in my head?'

She smiled at me again. There was something in her weird eyes, too - was it pity? I shivered, without really knowing why.

'No,' she said serenely, and the smile was gone as quickly as it had come. 'It's in mine.'


End file.
